Christmas karol, p.1
Christmas Karol, page 1
Faith Moore
Faith Moore
Christmas Karol
Copyright © 2023 by Faith Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-956007-30-5
Cover art and jacket design by Ralph Watson
First Edition
Published by DW Books®
DW Books®, a division of The Daily Wire®
Daily Wire
1831 12th Avenue South
Suite 460
Nashville, TN 37203
www.dailywire.com
PRINTED IN THE USA
Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
This book is for John
It’s all right, it’s all true, it all happened!
- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
“Mom?”
In the dream, Karol was being chased by Santa Claus.
“Mom!”
Not like the office Santa Claus. Like the real deal.
“MOM!”
Only he kept telling her he was going to put coal in her stockings.
“Mother!”
So she kept threatening to sue him for sexual harassment.
“MomMomMomMomMomMom MomMomMomMomMomMom!”
The voice broke into her consciousness and Santa Claus dissolved, grinning somewhat menacingly on the way out. Karol groaned and rolled over. She swiped a hand at her sleep mask and shoved aside a mass of tangled hair. The mask shifted and a line of bright yellow light sliced into her eyeball. She winced. Someone had opened the bedroom curtains and sunlight was spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She caught a fuzzy glimpse of blue sky and naked tree branches before she squeezed her eyes shut again and flopped onto her stomach. Santa Claus was still lurking somewhere in her subconscious.
Little hands were grabbing her shoulders. Tugging her onto her back. Trying to yank the sleep mask off her face and messing with her hair.
“Santa Claus isn’t real,” Karol mumbled, batting the hands away.
There was a pause. The hands stilled. The pressure on the bed next to her shifted. She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away drool. Gingerly, she pushed the sleep mask up onto her forehead and squinted her eyes open. Too bright. Pain shot through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut again and leaned back against the upholstered headboard. She puffed out her cheeks. Last night’s holiday party had gotten a little out of hand.
“Mom?” The voice was quiet now. Trembly.
What had she even just said? Something about Santa not being . . . oh. She forced her eyes open again, peering through a film of sleep and sunlight. Annabel was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her with those giant blue eyes that always made Karol feel a little uneasy. Annabel’s hand emerged from the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt—the one with the unicorn on the front—to tuck a strand of straight blond hair back behind her ear. Her plush velvet headband flopped forward onto her forehead and she shoved it back up. She bit her lip.
“For crying out loud,” Karol said, rolling her eyes then regretting it. “You’re nine years old—nearly ten!—you don’t really think Santa’s . . .”
Annabel snorted and hopped off the bed. “Psych!”
Annoyance flared in Karol’s chest. She’d started to feel bad for a minute there.
“You’re just lucky Alfie didn’t hear you say that,” Annabel said. “He’d have been dev-a-stated.” She said the word carefully, like she’d only just learned it, her tongue still working on all its peaks and valleys.
Karol huffed and shoved her hair back from her forehead with her open palm.
“Okay,” Annabel said, bending down to rummage under the bed. “Here we go. Your slippers are right here, I turned on the coffee pot, and I put a glass of water right here next to your bed.” She gestured at it. “The bottle of aspirin’s right here too. It has one of those child-lock caps—which I totally know how to open by the way but Dad says I shouldn’t even so, so I just put the bottle here instead of the actual pills—and . . .”
“Why aren’t you dressed for school?” Karol took in her daughter’s unicorn sweatshirt and flower-embroidered bell-bottoms. This outfit was a far cry from the plaid skirt and dark blue cardigan of Annabel’s school uniform, a get-up that always gave Karol a deep sense of accomplishment when she saw it. Nothing but the very best school for her children.
A car shushed by on the street below and Karol glanced out the window. Prospect Park seemed quieter than usual this morning.
Annabel laughed and shoved her headband back up onto her head again. “Duh, Mom,” she said. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“No school on Christmas Eve?” Karol asked, not really paying attention. She was thinking about one of her clients—Jeffrey Dworkin. CEO, he was always quick to add, of Dworkin’s Toys. He’d been at the party last night, sloppy drunk and in the mood to unburden himself. Which he’d proceeded to do by dropping a meaty hand on her bare shoulder, talking directly to the thigh slit in her black satin dress, and telling her he didn’t think Parker was the right lawyer for his case. He’d said he needed someone with a little more . . . finesse. This was probably a line—was definitely a line—but also true, since every single Sparkle-Me Pretty Doll Dworkin had sold this Christmas was defective. That was a lawsuit that was going to be hard to win. The Sparkle-Me dolls had been one of the hottest toys this year. Parents were going ballistic. She’d promised to look into it.
“Um, no Mom,” Annabel said. “No school on Christmas Eve.”
“Ridiculous.”
Annabel rolled her eyes and walked toward the door. She flicked the light switch and the crystal chandelier winked on. Karol put up a hand to shield her eyes.
“I pulled up the cookie recipe on the iPad,” Annabel said. “Alfie is watching TV in the den but the show’s only like twenty minutes—you know, the one with that weirdo who looks like a lumberjack but sounds like a chipmunk?—so he’ll be ready soon.”
“Ready for . . . ?” Karol’s mind had drifted. Parker was a good lawyer, but he didn’t quite understand the urgency of the situation. Dworkin was right. She couldn’t delegate this one. She’d have to step in. And it would be best to get right on it. Roberta could call Parker and whichever associates had been working on the case and get them to come into the office. They’d all have to come in. People worked better when they were in the office. A calming sense of purpose began to spread through her.
“Cookie baking,” Annabel said, finally standing still and looking at Karol. She even had her hands on her little elastic-waisted hips. “You promised.”
Had she? She couldn’t remember. She probably had. It was the kind of thing she always felt she ought to be doing. Ought to want to be doing at least. But this thing with Dworkin. She would feel much better if it was taken care of now. She thought, fleetingly, of Marley—the way she always did in moments like this—but she quickly shook the thought away. She didn’t want to think about Marley. Especially not now—not this time of year. She licked her lips, ran her tongue over her fuzzy teeth, and grimaced. Her eyes were finally adjusting to the light. Not that that did anything for her headache. She smoothed the white duvet over her legs and reached for the aspirin bottle. Outside, a bright red cardinal landed on a bare gray branch, tilting its head comically at them before fluttering off. Annabel laughed but didn’t move. She kept standing there, her socks sinking into the plush white carpet. Karol popped two aspirin and swallowed them without the water.
“Where’s your father?” She glanced over at Beau’s side of the bed. A stack of books and a fountain pen on the glass-topped bedside table were the only indication that he’d even come to bed last night. She hadn’t seen him.
“In his studio,” Annabel said. “Finishing a painting. We’re not to disturb him unless we’re on fire.”
Karol yawned and stretched, reaching for her phone. “Go tell him you’re on fire.”
“Mom!”
“Uh-huh?” She had opened her email and was scanning the out-of-office replies and holiday greetings, checking for anything important.
“Mom, you’ve got to bake cookies with us. You’ve got to. Not for my sake.” She tossed her head. Made a little dismissive gesture with her hand. “I’ve learned to live with the disappointment. But for Alfie. He’s got his heart set on baking cookies and .
“Where’s . . . Amanda or . . . Isabella or . . . the nanny? What’s this one’s name again?”
“Emma. And it’s Christmas Eve so she’s at home. Probably baking cookies with her own kids.”
“How inconsiderate.”
“Mom!”
Karol flung her phone back onto the bedside table where it clattered against the glass.
“Fine,” she said. “Fine. Just . . . just give me a minute, okay?”
She’d have to text Roberta. That would be step one. Parker would be mad Karol was taking over the case, but that was irrelevant. They couldn’t lose this one. She’d worked hard to sign Dworkin. She began to think through what they’d need to do. She grabbed her phone again and began to make notes, that familiar sense of purpose and calm settling over her again.
Annabel flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I’m just telling you. Whenever that show ends, Alfie’s gonna . . .”
Karol let her breath out in an exasperated huff. She couldn’t think like this. “Cookies! Yes! Fine, I get it. Just . . . just give me a minute okay?” she barked.
“Fine!” Annabel turned, blonde hair flying out in a sheet behind her. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you!” She ran out of the room.
Karol was pretty sure she slammed the door on purpose. The aspirin hadn’t kicked in yet.
~ ~ ~
Karol stood at the top of the stairs, typing furiously on her phone. Roberta would get everyone together. Parker would fill Karol in and they’d talk strategy. She checked the time. She had a few minutes to stand around in the kitchen for a little while with the kids so Beau didn’t guilt trip her. Then she’d head in to the office. She hit send and looked up.
Down the hall to her left, squares of yellow sunlight lay on the hardwood floor, filtering in from the dormer windows. She turned toward them, away from the stairs, and stood a moment, looking at the closed door at the end of the hall. She imagined her husband in there, his glasses perched on his mop of unruly hair, peering intently at his canvas, a paintbrush suspended in midair. A weird but familiar mix of longing and annoyance seized hold of her.
“Mommy?” Alfie’s voice filtered up the stairs and she jumped. But she was standing just out of his line of sight. He couldn’t see her. If she waited a minute, he might get bored and wander off. His voice came again. “Ambel? I don’t think Mommy’s coming.”
“She’s coming.” Annabel’s voice got louder as she approached the stairwell. “She just needs a minute. Let’s turn on the Christmas tree lights and the music and get out the ingredients!”
“Yay! Can I press the play button?”
“Course you can.”
She heard their feet pounding away into the den. The urge to open Beau’s door—to catch him in there just as she’d imagined him—surged in her. She wasn’t sure why. She pushed the feeling away and let the annoyance overtake the longing. Surely Beau could bake with the children. He’d definitely be better at it than she would. And the children always had more fun with Beau than with her. They probably just wanted to bake with her because Beau was busy. So this would be win-win. She’d do something else with them later if they wanted. Something less . . . Christmassy.
Christmas music began to filter up the stairs.
“I love this song!” Alfie shouted from somewhere downstairs.
Karol didn’t recognize it. Christmas songs all sounded the same to her now. Fa la la a tree, ding dong merrily a cow, hark it’s Jesus, give him stuff he doesn’t need, let it snow, because we’re not in charge of snow and it’s gonna snow anyway, it’s December. Tra la tra la.
She turned away from Beau’s studio and caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. She’d pulled her brown hair up into a messy bun and, without makeup, her face looked tired. Dull. The dark circles under her eyes made the brown of her irises look muddy. Her high cheekbones cast shadows in the hollows of her cheeks. Her lips were full but in need of some lip balm. A far cry from the femme fatale of last night. She looked herself in the eye.
“Just make the stupid cookies,” she muttered to herself.
Her phone pinged and she glanced at it. It was a text from Roberta: “On it!” Karol cringed. It was like her assistant’s sickly-sweet voice had somehow materialized into the air. Karol let her breath out in a slow steady stream.
“Mommy?” Alfie was back at the foot of the stairs.
Karol waited another moment in the hallway, out of sight. For some reason her throat felt suddenly tight. She cleared it. She couldn’t be getting sick now.
“Mommy? The music is on. I’m wearing my Christmas sweater. Ambel let me turn on the tree cuz I very careful. And we ready now. You ready Mommy?”
She took a breath to answer but found that she couldn’t speak.
“Come on Alfie,” she heard Annabel say. “We’ll make the cookies on our own. We can even . . .”
“Here I am!” Karol found her voice and launched herself toward the stairs. Her throat unclenched and the strange sense of longing disappeared completely. Now she was just annoyed. “Cool it you guys. I’m coming.”
At the bottom of the stairs, her two children turned back around. Two sets of blue eyes, two blond heads—Alfie’s hair tousled and spiking up at odd angles—two little mouths suddenly smiling. Annabel raised her eyebrows, a look of relief spreading over her face. She turned away. Alfie beamed, showing his square little teeth. He was wearing a hideous green and red sweater with a picture of a goofy-looking llama on it. The words “Fa la la la llama” were knitted onto one sleeve. The other sleeve had a line of white pom poms all the way down it.
“Mommy!” Alfie yelled. Karol winced.
“Too loud!” she said. Alfie’s smile faltered. “Where’d you get that awful sweater?”
Karol reached the bottom of the stairs and walked past the children toward the kitchen.
“I like my sweater.” Alfie ran to catch up. Annabel had gone ahead of them into the kitchen. “Daddy says it’s the perfect sweater for Christmas Eve and I’m the perfect little guy to wear it.”
“Daddy would say something like that,” Karol muttered.
Karol passed the den, barely glancing at the eight-foot Christmas tree lit up in green and red and blue. Beau had carried it home a few weeks ago and decorated it with the children. She’d hardly looked at it. It was a tree. It belonged outside as far as Karol was concerned. And they’d probably put that stupid little angel on top—the one from when she and Fran were kids. Karol had tried to throw it away but Beau had put his foot down on that one. Said they had to keep it. So it was probably up there, impaled on top of the tree. Another Christmas tradition that made no sense: shove a tree branch up an angel’s butt, Merry Christmas! She didn’t want to see it. She walked past the den, turned, and went down the two steps to the kitchen.
The music was playing on the kitchen speakers too. A treacly voice was singing “Mary Did You Know?”
“Yeah,” Karol muttered. “I’m pretty sure she knew.”
Alfie and Annabel were standing at the kitchen island. Alfie was on a stepstool and Annabel was tying a red apron with white snowflakes around his waist. Thankfully, it covered the stupid llama’s stupid face. Annabel was wearing a matching one. She looked up and flicked her eyes to the back of the pantry door which was open, revealing another red snowflaked apron in Karol’s size hanging on a hook. She hesitated—she wasn’t planning on staying that long. But she figured this would keep everyone calm for a minute and buy her some goodwill, so she rolled her eyes and went to get the apron. Where had they gotten all this stuff anyway? And could it all be returned? Like, right now?
On the island counter, Annabel had assembled the ingredients, along with a mixing bowl, a spoon, and a bunch of other random things that Karol was pretty sure didn’t have anything to do with cookies—like a toy firetruck, a piece of mail, and a laptop power cord.
“Alfie helped me set up,” Annabel said, by way of an explanation. “Oh, and this came for you.” She plucked the envelope out of the debris and handed it to Karol.
Karol finished tying her apron and took the envelope. It had already been opened. Alfie was bouncing up and down on his stepstool. He grabbed a wooden spoon from the mixing bowl and waved it around.
